"It's not poisoned," the one-eyed god insisted.
He seemed so eager for me to drink the mug he'd offered me that I had no choice but to take a sip just so I wouldn't offend him—and I seriously didn't want to offend another immortal on the same night that the demon wolf cursed me with eternal torment.
A tasty warmth filled my mouth, with the taste of my favorite white chocolate mocha frap on my tongue.
I grinned. "This is good."
"The rich tapestry of mead is more than just good, boy," the one-eyed god grumbled.
Did it bother me that he sounded more like a cowboy or a member of a biker gang rather than the Norse god I believed him to be? A little, but hey, I heard that Hel spoke with a southern drawl when dealing with humans. Perhaps that meant the gods were as easily influenced by the mortals who worshipped them as quickly as we mortals were spoiled by a god's mood.
